


In The Event Of An Emergency

by MissKate



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assault, Child Abuse, F/M, Family Separation, Gen, M/M, Medical Procedures, Poverty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23746588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissKate/pseuds/MissKate
Summary: Ian Gallagher's been missing for three days. Lip knows where he would have gone, but Ian can count on him. Mickey knows where he was, but he's been drunk since then. Terry Milkovich knows where the bodies are. Fiona knows where the keys were kept.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Lip Gallagher, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	In The Event Of An Emergency

**Author's Note:**

> Before you begin, I want to advise you that I am not certain if Mickey/Ian is endgame. I have severe reservations regarding their relationship, and this is less about Ian with Mickey and more about Ian, his family, and how they might have dealt with a more permanent separation, had things gone differently.

_Please place the mask over your own mouth and nose before assisting others_

1\. Losing Pressure

“No,” Terry pulled the phone away from his ear. “No, no.”

Ian thought, just for a stupid, shithead moment, that maybe he’d had a change of heart. Maybe his heart grew two sizes, and he realized that he could love his son, even if said son liked taking it up the ass. Or he’d just realized it wasn’t worth risking jail time.

Terry put the phone away, and turned to him. Mickey groaned, some low, fearful animal sound, bringing his attention back.

“Dad-“

“Shut the fuck up!”

Ian got up, he was thinking, thinking, he didn’t know what he was thinking, but Terry had been around the block a few times, and he’d never learned to lose. A preternatural instinct for violence had him turning back around and cracking the pistol across Ian’s face, following it up with a blow to the ribs.

Mickey tried to stand.

“Sit the fuck down!”

“Please. I won’t see him again, please, just fucking please.”

“Damn right you won’t be seeing him again.”

Once Ian’d done something. Something, he couldn’t remember what, but Frank had hit him for it. He’d never done it when he was little, but Ian had been nine at the time, and something had changed.

He’d hit him like this, like this, just as methodical, but slower. Open handed, almost gentle, because Frank hadn’t really gotten brutal until he was twelve, but over and over, like this. Fiona had made him stop, finally, after twenty minutes, when she got home. She’d been screaming like this, too.

“No, stop, stop, please!”

 _No, no,_ Ian thought. _No, please, keep going, but don’t touch him, don’t touch Mickey._

…

“Mr. Gallagher, I am happy to sit you down in here for the rest of your life.”

It was a small, dark room. There was a desk, two chairs, one in front of it, one behind.

“I don’t know where he is.”

“Keep saying that,” D’Andre picked up his coffee, and leaned back in his chair. “I can keep you here, blank walls, no windows. Jog your memory.”

“I still don’t know.”

There was a nice, long silence, which loudly spoke to him of his many failures as a brother and a human being.

“You realize your brother is fifteen, right?”

Sixteen, but better they think he was younger, they’d look harder.

He stared into his hands. They were wet, for some reason.

“Jesus Christ.”

A styrofoam cup was shoved between his fingers.

“Here. Drink something.”

The coffee was terrible, like the coffee at home.

Ian didn’t do things like this. He planned, he worked hard, he went to school and to work. He rarely skipped, he never stayed out late enough to make Fiona worry.

“Did you check the house?”

“Your sister says she hasn’t seen him.”

Fiona wouldn’t lie. She’d do her best to get Ian to go back here. It’s not so bad.

“His work?”

D’Andre’s face had that weird, spacey look people had sometimes, when they thought they were going to give you shit and it turned out you were going through something they understood. Like when he told the principal that he had to stay home to watch Liam that one week because Fiona had to work.

“He left when he was supposed to,” D’Andre said. “Him and his co-worker. Would they go somewhere together?”

That was it, wasn’t it? He had to think of something, he had to tell a lie, keep Ian’s secrets, the same way Ian kept his.

“Phillip.”

_Who the fuck is Phillip?”_

D’Andre looked like a guy who wasn’t soft very often.

“I know you want to keep Ian’s secret.”

His voice was like melted velveeta. Fiona found three blocks in the trash once, and the Mac and cheese had never tasted so rich, but by the time they’d been finished up he’d never wanted to eat it again.

“But it’s been three days.”

And that was the kicker, wasn’t it?

“He might have gone to Mickey’s house,” Lip drank the coffee, hated himself, and finished it. “Mickey Milkovich. I can give you the address.”

Mickey, who’d rather go to jail than come out of the closet.

_Ian, what the fuck were you doing?_

“They’re friends?”

“They work together.”

Because no one could really say that Mickey and Ian were friends. Mickey and Ian were co-workers, Ian had dated Mandy, Lip dated Mandy.

Ian and Mickey stayed a secret by virtue of several degrees of connection. If they were found together, Mickey always had an excuse, and Ian had the advantage of height and humour.

“Okay.” D’Andre stood up, looked down at him. “I’m going to make some calls. You need to stay here. I’ll get you more coffee.”

…

Tony didn’t like going to the Milkovich’s. It wasn’t like they were called to go there very often, honestly, just when one of the many career criminals there got caught violating parole, otherwise they were arrested at the scene, but the house itself had a bright, violent shimmer around it.

Most of the places around here were just sad, clouded with greys and purples. Some were gleaming happiness, even with hard work and everything that people used to numb the hard work.

Tony never told anyone what he could see in his neighbourhood. He just wanted to stay there and keep it safe. Not let anyone get hurt, and that was getting harder all the time.

The Milkovich house sat heavy, bright and brutal with rage. Something worse was clinging to it, like a parasite. It was only there when Terry was there. The rest of the time the house stewed in softer rage, and in grief and fear.

They knocked on the door. Loud, rapping knocks. The whole house darkened with expectant rage.

“What?” Terry Milkovich looked like he’d been woken up, frazzled and ruffled. He smelled of alcohol, a ground in smell, something he’d probably never get rid of.

“Is Mickey around, Terry?”

Tony was good at talking to people. He grew up around here. His mom went to school with Terry and only the grace of god and his dad stowing away on a cargo ship let Tony come into a small, happy, tightly wound house, instead of this black hole.

“What’d he do?”

Tony smiled. He had a nice smile. Even Fiona thought so. It was useful in his line of work.

“We just want to ask him a few questions. We’re looking for Ian Gallagher,” He wondered, for a moment, at the way Terry’s face tightened. “He works with Mickey. He disappeared from his group home a few days ago.”

“Mickey’s out,” Terry snapped, and slammed the door in their faces.

They made their way slowly down the street. It lightened with every block, until they hit the third block, then it was back to normal, soft blues and greys and shimmering bursts of colours in the air as people met and parted. Some better, some worse. They stopped at intervals and held up Ian’s picture, or they asked where Mickey was. The answer to both questions was generally a head shake, followed by a comment on Ian’s general character or Mickey’s, and the according well wishes or blighting curses. They didn’t strike luck until they met Mrs. Klaczko, out with her chihuahua, who grinned and jumped for Eddie’s fingers as the old woman spoke.

“That little Nazi?” She gestured over her shoulder. “Out there, in the abandoned warehouses. He likes to go hide there so he can drink and shoot guns. Stupid little shit, he’s going to get someone killed.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Klaczko,” Tony shook her hand. “Do you need any help getting home?”

“You’re a good boy, Tony, but Porkchop and I are just going to the butcher’s for our supper. We’re fine, go, go.”

He got back in the car, and watched her trudge down the sidewalk.

“She was in a concentration camp,” He told Eddie. “Auchwitz. Her whole family died, minus one sister, and now she’s got twelve grandkids and twenty great grand-kids.”

“Score one for Southside condom failures,” Eddie grunted, and turned the corner, pushing a little faster.

The warehouses were grey, faded, and full of decay. It wasn’t safe for kids there, and when they found Mickey Milkovich and a bottle of cheap vodka, he looked all of twelve years old, even with the cigarette hanging from his lips.

He took it out of his mouth when he saw them, unsteadily tapping the ash off, and Tony saw him take a look at the windows, as if gauging the distance between him and the ground. He was covered in bruises and cuts, and there was something off in how he held his left leg.

Tony stopped and motioned Eddie back, then turned his smile on Mickey, holding out empty hands.

“Hey, Mickey, got a second?”

The kid stopped, suspicion and fear swirling around him.

“Fuck you want?”

“Ian Gallagher,” Tony reached slowly into his pocket, and pulled out the picture. “You work together, right? He’s been missing a few days.”

“You’re not in any trouble, we’re not even going to talk about the booze,” he tried for a joke, but Mickey didn’t seem to notice, hand outstretched for the photo, a copy of a school picture. “We knew you guys worked together, just thought you might have an idea of what’s going on.”

Mickey’s fingers trembled around the picture, his thumb dragging over Ian’s face. Tony waited, tried to be patient. Ian was missing, but the crucial twenty-four hour period was over, the urgency was waning. They’d find him, or they wouldn’t, and the world wouldn’t end either way.

“You know where he is, Mickey?” Eddie wasn’t so patient. He’d grown up in New York, was firm and stern and violent when pushed.

Mickey looked at them, eyes softened by alcohol.

“He’s dead.”

…


End file.
